CHAPTER XIX
What a dining room that was! All of logs, high ceilinged, with smokedrafters stained like an old meerschaum pipe. It reminded me of a wealthyman's hunting lodge in Maine, perhaps, rather than the abode of a wildman. There was a huge yawning fireplace at one end, above which was thefinest specimen of an elk's head I have ever seen. There were otherheads, too, prong-horned antelope, beautiful bison heads, remarkablespecimens of bighorn sheep and mountain goats, there were buffalo robesand wolf robes strewn over the floor, and there were abundant wellstocked gun cases on every hand.
But conspicuous among the collection of firearms was one, kept apart,polished and cleaned, and on a rack made of elk horns handily placedjust above the big mantle. It was beautifully though not elaboratelymade, with a fine damascus barrel of tremendous length, a lock and settrigger that showed expert handicraft, and stock of beautifully polishedbirds-eye maple. An expert would have known immediately that it was afirst-water product of an expert gunsmith.
Big Pete noticed it as soon as I did and he could not keep his eyes fromroving to it occasionally during the meal.
"You may scalp me, stranger, fer sayin' it, but I'd like mightily wellto heft that tha' shooting iron o' your'n and examine it when we gitthrough with chuck," he said.
Our strange host looked up at the rifle, then searchingly at Big Pete.
"I don't mind showing it to you, but you must not touch it," he saidfinally.
"I reckon I wouldn't hurt it none. I've handled guns before," said BigPete shortly, and I could see that he was piqued at the man's attitude.
"Guess you wouldn't, but I've made it a rule never to let strange handstouch that rifle," said the strange man, and there was a grimness abouthis tone that forbade quibbling.
"Huh, well I can't say as perhaps yore not right about yore shootin'hardware at that," said Pete. Then after glancing at it again, he added,"a hunter's gun and a woodsman's ax should never be trusted in strangehands. Bet a ten spot it's a Patrick Mullen. Hain't it?"
The name of my kinsman, the famous gunsmith, brought a suddenrealization that Mullen was my own family name.
The mention of the gunsmith seemed also to have a curious effect on theold man. His face grew red under the tan and his brow wrinkled and Icould see his cold blue eyes scrutinizing Big Pete closely. Finally hesaid bluntly,
"It is, and it's worth a thousand dollars."
"A thousand dollars!" I exclaimed, "a thousand dollars?"
"Yes," cried the old man almost fiercely, "yes, yes, and it is my gun.He gave it to me, he did--to me and not to Donald. He--"
He stood up suddenly as if he intended to stride over and seize the gun,to protect it from us but as quickly sat down again and buried his facein his hands, and I could see him biting his lips as if he wereattempting to control his feeling.
As for me, quite suddenly a great light seemed to dawn. This strange oldman was mentioning names that were familiar--that meant worlds to me. Ileaned toward him eagerly. Big Pete stood quietly listening, a silentbut interested spectator.
"Did you know Donald Mullen, a brother to the famous gunsmith? Tell me,did you know him? I have come all the way--"
I stopped in wonder. Never in all my life do I ever expect to witnesssuch a pitiful expression of anguish pictured so vividly on the humancountenance as it was on the face of the Wild Hunter.
"What," he whispered, "did you know him?"
"He was my father," I answered simply.
For a moment the Wild Hunter looked at me intently, then said, "Ibelieve you, you favor him somewhat." He then came forward as if toshake my hand, but changed his mind and sat down with a forced and wansmile.
"Did I know Don Mullen? Did I? He was my partner, my bunkee for manyyears and on many prospecting trips, a better bunkee no man ever had,but he is dead now, dead! dead! dead! been dead for a dozen years. Hewas killed by an avalanche. A better partner no man ever had," hemurmured and relaxed into silence.
My efforts to get more information of my parents were of no avail. TheWild Hunter turned the conversation in other directions.
Of course, the knowledge that my real father was dead, had been dead along time, caused me a feeling of sadness, yet strangely enough thelittle knowledge that I had gleaned from this strange old man brought asense of relief to me. I think that it must have been a certain senseof satisfaction to know that this queer man was not my father.
But if he was not Donald Mullen, who was he? That question kept mepondering and for the rest of the meal I was silent, speculating on thisstrange situation, nor did I have an opportunity to note, as Big Petedid, the tearful, kindly glances that the Wild Hunter shot at me now andthen.
Still, for all, he was sociable, extremely sociable, and talkative, too,but I fancy now as I recall it, he was simply keeping the conversationin safe channels, for it was very apparent that the rifle and his formermining partner were painful subjects.
Dinner over, we all went out onto the porch of the ranch house, where wetalked while the twilight lasted. At least Big Pete and the Wild Huntertalked as they smoked two of those mysterious long cigars, but I wasstill silent because of the many strange thoughts that were rompingthrough my mind.
Soon darkness settled down and Big Pete began to yawn. I also washeavy-eyed, and presently the Wild Hunter clapped his hands and summoneda leather-skinned old Indian to whom he gave brief low command in theMewan Indian tongue, as I was afterwards informed by Big Pete, thenturning to us he said in his fascinating soft voice:
"It will probably be a novelty for both of you gentlemen to again sleepin a bed between sheets and under a roof. I doubt whether you will enjoyit even though the sheets are clean linen which were spun and woven bymy noble Indians. Moose Ear, here, will conduct you to your rooms and Iwill take a turn about the place before retiring to see that all iswell, and also to see that my black wolf pack is securely confinedwithin the wolf corral. This is a precaution, gentlemen, which I takeevery night, because a wolf is a wolf no matter how well trained he maybe upon the surface, and night is the time wolves delight to run. Thesebeasts are especially dangerous to strangers and it is for that reason Iam putting you in the house in place of allowing you to camp outdoors,as I know you would prefer to do. Good-night, gentlemen, see that thedoors are closed. Pleasant dreams."
As we said good-night to him I wondered vaguely if the wolf pen wassecurely built, for it seemed to me that I detected a suggestion ofdoubt in the mind of the Wild Hunter himself. I little realized,however, the horrors the darkness had in store for us.